


All Is Bright

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Ficlets, Fluff, Holiday Cheer, Johnlock Christmas Advent, M/M, Stand-alone stories, johnlock christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-05 14:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 12,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16812079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: 2018 Johnlock Holiday Advent Ficlet Challenge!A collection of super fluffy 500-word standalone ficlets!Every day, a different prompt, every day, a different story! ❤️***This work is now complete!





	1. Day One—Holiday Decor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tattoos_n_honey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattoos_n_honey/gifts).



> This work is a gift for 221-b-gone feels. SURPRISE! I’m your Sherlock secret Santa! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the fluff, and Happy Holidays!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a one-time thing, drunkenly snogging Sherlock Holmes up against the stairway wall outside of 221B.

It had been a one-time thing, drunkenly snogging Sherlock Holmes against the stairway wall outside of 221B.

The two of them had simply been intoxicated from too much eggnog at the Yard Holiday Party, and their mouths had practically fallen into one another, somehow.

The cuddling, too, beside the fireplace—where they’d continued to kiss lazily, warming one another with fuzzy blankets and pillows and their own bodies.

Yep, just the once.

And, well, also—the whole “falling asleep wrapped in one another’s arms” thing. Sherlock’s limbs entwined in John’s as John had grazed his lips over smooth skin. And the smell of Sherlock’s cologne, the scent of his silky hair as John had buried his face in and inhaled.

Never gonna happen again.

And okay. The slightly awkward kiss John had given Sherlock the morning after. The one that had started off chaste, but had lingered, long and yearning, just before John had mumbled a soft goodbye against Sherlock’s cool, dry lips.

Especially not that one.

On his way home from work, John passes glowing Christmas lights and bright-faced children and tired-faced mums and dads on the street doing their Christmas shopping.

He resolutely walks up the stairs to 221B, definitely _not_ planning on kissing or cuddling or embracing Sherlock.

John also doesn’t plan on opening the front door and finding the entire flat covered in mistletoe. Hanging from every doorway, lined up in rows on the tables and shelves—even attached to the walls.

John supposes he should have planned better.

“Sherlock!” he calls out. “What did you do?”

Sherlock emerges from his bedroom timidly, his face low and small like a puppy who had been caught chewing up a pair of shoes. “I read somewhere that if you stand near a piece of mistletoe with someone, it means you’ve got to kiss them.”

John finds himself beaming, a sudden fondness and relief swelling in his chest. Oh, thank _God._ He takes a few steps into the room. “Yes? And?” he prods. “You do know it’s only supposed to happen if the two people are standing _beneath_ the mistletoe, right?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I figured adding more mistletoe could only ensure that you wouldn’t stop kissing me.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John whisks himself forward, taking Sherlock into his arms and squeezing him tightly as he seals their lips together. Sherlock melts into him, making a low, satisfied noise in the back of his throat as he kisses John back. 

They stand there, simply basking in one another’s affection and warmth and in the strong, strong aroma of mistletoe.

John pulls away finally, coughing. “Sherlock,” he says, waving a hand in front of his own nose. “I’d love nothing more than to continue kissing you. Now, and tomorrow, and every day after that.” He smiles. “But please tidy up the mistletoe before Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs, or else one of us may have to kiss her.”

Sherlock’s smile fades instantly, his eyes widening. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll get on that immediately.”


	2. Day Two—Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn’t even know the Earth was round, Genius.”
> 
> “Unimportant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii! Enjoy this silly unilock coffee shop AU thing. It was fun to write. ❤️

John is working after hours on this particular night, but it’s been well worth it—because now, it’s only Sherlock and himself here, alone in the cafe, and their only duty is to bedazzle the place with holiday decor.

And John has been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s attention all evening. Flirtatious teasing. Arm squeezes. Eye contact and smiles and skin brushing innocently against skin.

As John shuffles through a box of tree ornaments, Sherlock watches him over his tea mug. John is perched on his favourite armchair, and as they laugh and reminisce, Sherlock can’t seem to take his eyes off of him for a second.

John doesn’t want him to.

“Ah.” John pulls out a red, star-shaped tree topper. “Who’s gonna put the star on top of the tree?”

Sherlock leans in, crowding John with his proximity. “Allow me,” he grins. “Not sure you’ll be able to reach, Watson.”

John clears his throat dramatically, yanking the ornament away. “I may be short, Holmes. But at least I know what a star _is.”_

Sherlock’s jaw drops, but he hides a smile. “I failed _one_ astronomy exam—“

“You didn’t even know that the Earth was round, Genius.”

“Unimportant.”

“The Greeks didn’t think so.”

“Ask the Roman Empire if they care.”

John rolls his eyes, and in his semi-distracted state, Sherlock swipes the star back.

It happens very fast:

John leaps from the armchair in a fit of laughter, instantly claiming the star—but as his body tilts forward, his lips graze the skin of Sherlock’s cheek.

They both freeze, John’s mouth hovering, warm and curious over Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock’s gravity pulls John inward, and John tilts his head up, pressing his mouth firmly onto Sherlock’s skin.

Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s thin waist, John collapses backwards into the armchair, pulling Sherlock with him.

Sherlock sinks into John’s lap. Twines his arms around John’s neck, meeting his lips with an impatient neediness, sliding his tongue over the seam of his mouth until it falls open.

Sherlock tastes like peppermint and espresso.

He grapples the collar of John’s shirt, breathing heavily as John runs a hand over his spine. Sherlock groans demandingly, squeezing John’s knees between his like a vise, but John only kisses back in sweet, slow, tender sips.

It drives Sherlock mad.

“John.” Sherlock bites softly onto John’s bottom lip, sliding his hands up John’s neck, into his hair.

“Sherlock.” John sighs, finally giving in, licking into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock makes a sound of approval, rocking his hips against John’s, and it’s the hottest thing John’s ever been a part of, and—

Sherlock reaches over and steals the star back.

John bursts into laughter before unsealing their lips. “ _Sherlock!”_ He cries. “Awfully dirty trick.”

Sherlock smiles against John’s mouth and slowly pulls away. “I know quite a few dirty tricks, John, but I’m afraid I can’t show you those here.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Then put the bloody tree topper on, and let’s get the hell out of here.”


	3. Day Three—You Better Watch Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks the happiest tonight that John’s ever seen him—an absolute fact that makes John warmer than the cider in his hands.

John and Sherlock are in love.

They had confessed their feelings during a particularly dire case which neither one had expected to survive, but were ecstatic when Mycroft rescued them at the final moment.

The repayment? Dinner on Christmas Eve with the Holmes Family. As a couple.

So here they sit—Mummy and Father and Mycroft and John and Sherlock. Laughing and sipping hot cider and sharing stories as holiday music fills the room.

Mummy coos every two minutes about how pleased she is that John and Sherlock are finally _John and Sherlock._

“Me too,” John always responds, and Sherlock always rolls his eyes, but John knows him well enough to know he feels exactly the same.

Sherlock looks the happiest tonight that John’s ever seen him—an absolute fact that makes John warmer than the cider in his hands.

But that suddenly seems to change when a new song floats through the air:

_You better watch out_

_You better not cry_

The smile on Sherlock’s lips fades, replaced by a dull glare as his cheeks grow bright red.

Mycroft shoots Sherlock a sly grin. “Oh. It’s your song.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock warns through gritted teeth.

Mummy and Father laugh. “Oh, _this_ ,” says Mummy knowingly. “Myc used to terrify Sherlock by singing it to him as a child.”

“What?!” John turns to Sherlock and chuckles, his heart bursting with fondness. “Really?”

“The lyrics are horrifying, John,” Sherlock snaps. “Have you actually heard them?”

“He sees you when you’re sleeping,” Mycroft chimes in tauntingly. “He knows when you’re awake...”

John can’t stop giggling at this, especially as Sherlock’s face settles into a full scowl.

“Mycroft had Sherlock convinced that Santa was actually an omnipotent serial killer,” Sherlock’s father states.

“Oh, love.” John puts his mug down and covers Sherlock’s hand with his. “That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I think we should break up,” Sherlock suggests.

John leans in to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. “If we break up, darling,” he says playfully, “who will protect you from Santa Claus?”

Everyone at the table bursts into laughter, and even Sherlock can’t hide the smile that peeks out from behind a glare.

The topic moves on to decorations and trees, and John continues to watch Sherlock pout indignantly. “Hey,” John says, leaning over to whisper into Sherlock’s ear. “I love you. And I am incredibly lucky to be here on Christmas. With you. Finally. For real.”

Sherlock turns to look at him, eyes wide, his expression so unbearably vulnerable that John’s chest aches.

Sherlock moves his head forward until it rests against John’s. “I love you, John. And I am incredibly lucky to get to say that to you. Finally. For real.”

And he kisses John softly on the mouth, right there before Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft and probably Santa Claus too, since Santa is always watching, or whatever. And then Sherlock drags John into his bedroom to perform a few acts that definitely put him onto Santa’s naughty list.


	4. Day Four—Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because,” Sherlock answers, voice grave. “You’ve never built one, and I find that heartbreaking, and I can’t let you go one more winter, one more day without creating that memory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little reminder—these stories are not connected, so in this particular one, the two aren’t in a relationship. YET ;)
> 
> Thank you so much to [Anna_fairy1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_fairy1) for your help with this chapter!

John has never built a snowman.

From the moment he casually reveals this fact to Sherlock, Sherlock can’t get it off his mind.

Sherlock had taken for granted, growing up in the North, that building a snowman is something everyone gets to do. Those are some of Sherlock’s happiest memories.

John had never gotten those memories himself, and Sherlock finds it incredibly tragic.

John isn’t bothered by it, but that’s because he doesn’t know what he’s missing.

So one December evening, Sherlock tells John to pack his bags.

“We’re going to Yorkshire for a case, John. Be ready to leave tomorrow morning at eight.”

John sighs resignedly. “Alright. Going to give me any details this time?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.”

When they arrive the next afternoon, snow falls silently from the sky, blanketing the ground as the sun peeks from the clouds.

They don’t get a moment’s rest. “Come, John,” Sherlock demands upon arrival. “We’re going for a walk.”

John’s got no idea what’s going on—still—but he’s used to following Sherlock without question.

So that’s what he does. And the two men walk and walk until they find themselves among many trees.

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asks.

“About?”

“The snow.”

“Oh. It’s _beautiful_.” John’s expression is brighter than the sunlight. “I’ve never seen this much snow before.”

As he speaks, Sherlock carefully removes a carrot and two pieces of coal from his bag.

John looks befuddled. “What are you—“

_“We,”_ Sherlock intervenes, “are building a snowman.”

John lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Why?”

“Because,” Sherlock answers, voice grave. “You’ve never built one, and I find that heartbreaking, and I can’t let you go one more Winter, one more _day_ without creating that memory.”

John is stunned. “Sherlock...we travelled all this way...so I could build a snowman?”

“Of course.”

John stares at Sherlock for several seconds without speaking. But then he moves swiftly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, body against his, and he’s warm and soft and smells better than Sherlock could have imagined.

Sherlock‘s body goes rigid.“John,” he says. “You're… embracing me.”

“Bloody right I am.” John holds Sherlock tighter still, and then tilts his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and whispers, “Thank you.”

Sherlock turns his own head to rest atop John’s downy-soft hair, finally wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders. “You’re welcome.”

Sherlock could stand like this until the sun goes down, he thinks—and long after.

“You know,” John says thoughtfully. “I’ve never made snow angels, either. Or been in a snowball fight.”

A smile spreads over Sherlock’s face. “I can show you all of those things. But does that mean we’ve got to stop holding one another?”

“Afraid so,” John chuckles. “At least for now.”

“Snowmen are overrated,” Sherlock asserts. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”

John laughs. “Alright. I’ve waited this long, anyway—I’m sure the wait will be worth it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, rubbing his cheek against John’s temple and dusting it with a kiss. “Well worth it.”


	5. Day Five—Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are lying close enough to touch. They don’t.
> 
> “This entire thing,” John murmurs. “You did it for me.”
> 
> “Yes.”
> 
> John gingerly rests his palm on Sherlock’s hipbone. “Why?”
> 
> “You’re here now, and I’m here now. I suppose that’s why.”
> 
> John swallows and says: “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Reichenbach feels. It’s like...a tiny bit angsty? But still very fluffy? Is it possible for something to be both fluffy and angsty at the same time? 
> 
> It’s flangsty, y’all.
> 
> (I promise this is as angsty as I’ll get with these. ❤️)

It’s past midnight, and London is sleeping.

John’s just put the finishing touches on his tiny Christmas tree. He sits in his tiny flat, staring at the tree from the comfort of his tiny sofa.

He’s been without Sherlock for one year, nine months, twelve days.

There’s a tiny knock at the door.

John’s not expecting anyone, but during the holidays, unexpected guests are not uncommon.

He opens his door, and he nearly faints as he takes in the sight before him.

 _“You,_ ” he whispers hoarsely. “I _knew_ it.”

“John. May I come in?”

John turns away. “I was just about to go to bed.”

“Oh,” the guest responds, downtrodden. “Then I’ll go.“

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?”

“Stay with me.”

Sherlock doesn’t blink. “Alright.”

So they lay themselves across John’s tiny bed, face-to-face. Their hearts are full of tiny words like _missed you_ and _love you_ and _never leave again._

Instead, John says: “I never believed you, when you said you were a fake.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know you. More than anyone.”

“Yes.” Sherlock stares at John’s lips. “You do.”

“I saw you everywhere, smelled you everywhere, heard you everywhere. You never really left me.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock agrees. “I could always feel you, though I was very far away.”

They are lying close enough to touch. They don’t.

“This entire thing,” John murmurs. “You did it for me.”

“Yes.”

John gingerly rests his palm on Sherlock’s hipbone. “Why?”

“You’re here now, and I’m here now. I suppose that’s why.”

John swallows and says: “I love you.”

Tears spill over Sherlock’s eyelashes. “How could you—after what I put you through?”

“How could I not, after what you put _yourself_ through...for me?”

Sherlock shakes his head, expression filled with doubt. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to believe it for it to be true.”

“Wouldn’t your love be better off elsewhere?”

“No.”

“But why? I’ve done nothing to earn your love.”

“You’ve done everything. You gave me my life back. You saved me from the darkest of places. And whether you know it, you are the kindest and wisest man I’ve ever known. You fight for justice and rightness. You’re my other half; I can’t imagine my life without you now that I’ve got you here. I love you—and you could walk away and we could see one another in twenty years, or we could be together every day, and that fact will never change.”

Sherlock trembles beneath John’s hands. “How can I be sure?”

John presses his forehead to Sherlock’s. “Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly.”

“Then know this—from now on, I will follow you wherever you may go.”

“You’ve always done that,” Sherlock breathes.

“That’s because I’ve always loved you.”

“Kiss me,” Sherlock says, weaving their fingers together. “Please just kiss me.”

John does.

It’s in the way that Sherlock kisses him back—still and quiet and yet achingly unreserved—John knows before the words are even uttered:

“I believe you,” Sherlock exhales. “I do.”


	6. Day Six—Fireplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed against his will. He hears John turn to go, and he awakens with a start. “John,” he whimpers. “Lie down.”
> 
> John sighs. “You’re the most demanding patient I’ve ever worked with. You know that?”
> 
> Sherlock hums lowly. “And your body is practically a furnace. Get over here. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a few liberties with this prompt. The fireplace has a very minor role, but John’s got enough body heat to make up for it. ;)

“I’m _not_ getting sick, John. It’s Christmas Eve, and that is simply not allowed.”

Sherlock’s denial is punctuated by a sneeze loud enough to wake the dead—or Mrs. Hudson, at the very least.

“You have a fever and you’ve vomited three times this evening,” John says reasonably. “You’ve definitely got the flu.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock mumbles—or he tries—but he actually has a massive coughing fit instead.

***

On Christmas morning, Sherlock wakes up on the sofa ready to die.

Sherlock feels: dizzy and nauseous and hot and cold all at once. It hurts to: talk, blink, breathe, move, and not move. Sherlock aches: everywhere.

“Johhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,” Sherlock whinges.

John is already heading into the sitting room with a bowl of soup. The smell causes Sherlock to dry heave.

“Not sick, hm?” John teases.

“John. Do not argue with a dying man.”

“Sherlock,” John says with concern in his voice. “Your teeth are chattering out of your head.”

“C-c….c-c-c-cooolllldddd…” Sherlock manages.

“Figured you might be,” John says. “So I started a fire in the fireplace.”

Sherlock doesn’t turn to look, but he can hear the fire crackling next to him. “Still cold,” he croaks. “You. Warm.”

“This will warm you up,” John says, setting the soup onto coffee table.

“Not _soup,”_ Sherlock squeaks. “ _Body._ ”

John furrows his brow. “Pardon?”

Sherlock flops onto one side and pats the spot next to himself on the sofa suggestively. “John. Share your body heat with me.”

John laughs nervously. “Sherlock, the medication I gave you must have made you a bit loopy.”

“You gave me medicine?”

“About an hour ago. You don’t remember?”

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed against his will. He hears John turn to go, and he awakens with a start. “John,” he whimpers. “Lie _down.”_

John sighs. “You’re the most demanding patient I’ve ever worked with. You know that?”

Sherlock hums lowly. “And your body is practically a furnace. Get over here. Now.”

John slowly pulls the covers off of Sherlock, kneeling down and tucking himself in underneath. “The things I do for you, Sherlock,” he mumbles, but Sherlock recognises the amused fondness in his tone.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him in beneath the covers until every inch of their bodies is pressed together.

Sherlock melts into John instantly. He rests his head on John’s chest, breathes in the scent of his shirt and his cologne, entwines their legs and arms together. It feels wonderful. Like home.

“Good?” John asks.

_“Very.”_

Sherlock thinks he might be making happy noises, and he thinks that John might be making happy noises back.

Sherlock thinks he might be mumbling things to John, such as _best doctor_ and _so warm_ and _beautiful and amazing_ and _I love you_ and _thank you for always taking care of me._

And as Sherlock drifts off to sleep, dizzy and punch-drunk and so very warm, he thinks he might also feel John kissing his forehead and mumbling back: “Merry Christmas. I love you, too.”


	7. Day Seven—Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ask me what my final one is, John.”
> 
> John stares into Sherlock’s piercing blue eyes. “What’s your final one, Sherlock?”
> 
> “You, kissing me.”
> 
> John laughs under his breath. “That...hasn’t happened.”
> 
> “Not yet,” Sherlock says. Their mouths are pulling in to one another’s like magnets. “But you’ve still got one minute before midnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [thinkanddoodle-batch.tumblr.com](thinkanddoodle-batch.tumblr.com) created beautiful fanart of this chapter ❤️ It’s at the bottom of the page!

John and Sherlock are two bottles of champagne into the evening—and five minutes away from 2011.  
  
They sit on the sofa, cross-legged and facing one another, knees touching. John’s spine is curled comfortably forward, hands resting lightly in his lap as he gazes up at Sherlock beneath heavy lashes. Sherlock looks back, cheeks flushed from the champagne and the keen awareness of their proximity.  
  
It’s not out of the ordinary for them to be physically close, but tonight is New Year’s Eve, and with the promise of new opportunities, their heads are temporarily cleared of the what ifs.  
  
“When I was younger,” John says, leaning closer. “My family used to ring in each new year by sharing three favourite memories of the year.”  
  
Sherlock crinkles his forehead rather adorably. “Sounds sentimental. I’ll pass.”  
  
John gives Sherlock a pleading look. “Just try?”  
  
Sherlock sighs, slumping forward. “Fine.”  
  
“Don’t think too much about it,” John says. “We’ll say the first one together, alright? On the count of three.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“One, two, three—“  
  
“The Jeff Hope Case—“  
  
“—A Study in Pink.” John’s words tangle up with Sherlock’s.  
  
“Same case,” John grins.  
  
Sherlock presses his lips together in thinly-veiled amusement. “Is it?” he teases. “Your version sounds rather ridiculous.”  
  
John ignores Sherlock’s mockery, but he finds it difficult to ignore Sherlock’s hands coming to rest on top of his.  
  
Sherlock nods. “Your turn?”  
  
John flips his hands over, palms facing up, and he wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s thin wrists. “Buckingham Palace,” he says.  
  
Sherlock erupts into laughter. “My proudest moment.”  
  
“As it ought to be.” John smiles. “Your turn.”  
  
“You—” Sherlock says, eyeing John with near adoration. “Getting into a row with a chip and pin machine.”  
  
John huffs. “What? You weren’t even there!”  
  
“Hearing you tell the tale was sufficient,” Sherlock says, his index fingers tracing circles around John’s inner wrists.  
  
John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock doesn’t allow it. “Your go,” he interrupts.  
  
John lowers his eyes. “You, in the art gallery, solving the case of the Vermeer painting.” He looks back up at Sherlock with genuineness in his expression. “You were absolutely incredible.”  
  
Sherlock’s ears flash a bright pink colour. “Was I?”  
  
“Well, yes.” John pauses. “You always are.”  
  
Sherlock smiles softly. “Thank you.” He then shifts his body forward, lifting each leg one at a time, tucking his feet behind John until he’s practically in John’s lap.  
  
“Ask me what my final one is, John.”  
  
John stares into Sherlock’s piercing blue eyes. “What’s your final one, Sherlock?”  
  
“You, kissing me.”  
  
John laughs under his breath. “That...hasn’t happened.”  
  
“Not yet,” Sherlock says. Their mouths are pulling in to one another’s like magnets. “But you’ve still got one minute before midnight.”  
  
John brings his hands delicately to each of Sherlock’s cheeks, brushing their lips together, and he kisses Sherlock, sweetly, longingly. And as Auld Lang Syne plays somewhere in the distance, they both know that this will become their favourite memory for many new years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much!!! 
> 
> [See the tumblr post here!](https://thinkanddoodle-batch.tumblr.com/post/181815299924/on-new-year-john-and-sherlock-share-their-3)


	8. Day Eight—Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John, your laugh is more beautiful than a symphony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii! I wanted this story to be teenlock but the plot was too thick to really drive that point across in 500 words, lol. Well, I hope you enjoy the pseudo-teenlock vibes! :D

The first time John had seen the famous Sherlock Holmes, young virtuoso violinist, he’d known he was done for. Known he needed _more_ of this boy—the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on _._

And that’s how John got _here,_ backstage after Sherlock’s holiday recital, wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Sherlock had transferred to John’s secondary school their final year. It had taken John weeks to gather the courage to talk to him.

It hadn’t gone well.

John had gone on far too long about how he’d watched some programme about Beethoven; talked forever about how he’d played the clarinet in middle school.

Although Sherlock had always seemed to have an air of overconfidence bordering on haughtiness, he’d only smiled shyly at John and said, “I love the clarinet. Perhaps you can play for me.”

John had nearly choked at the suggestion. “Not unless you fancy hearing a round—or seven—of _Hot Cross Buns_. I would, however, love to hear _you_ play.”

“That can be arranged,” Sherlock had responded. “I’ve got a performance next week. I’ll put you on the list.”

“I’d like that,” John had said.

Watching Sherlock play violin is like seeing a sunset after being blind your entire life; like swimming in a desert oasis after treading through dust—John never knew what beauty he’d been missing until he’d actually seen it. Sherlock, swaying to the beat, curls bobbing as he pulls the bow wildly across the strings; music flowing from his fingers, painting the air with a melody rich enough to be pure gold.

John has attended every performance of Sherlock’s for weeks now. After every performance, he meets Sherlock backstage. They share awkward, heavy conversations, and there always seems to be much left unsaid.

Tonight, however, John’s got a Christmas gift he plans to give Sherlock—a keychain containing three charms of items Sherlock loves: a violin, a honeybee, and a microscope.

John vows that tonight, things will be said.

The two step in close to one another as John meets him behind the curtain. “You sounded amazing tonight, Sherlock,” John begins.

“Thank you for attending,” Sherlock says. “Not just tonight, but...always.”

“I’ve brought you a gift.” John pulls the keychain from his coat pocket and hands it to Sherlock.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes. “It’s perfect.” He kneels down to attach the keychain to his violin case, and then stands back up to face John. “I’ve got a gift for you as well. I composed a song for you.”

John’s mouth drops open. “What?” 

“It’s called _Sonrisa._ It’s inspired by the way I feel when you smile—when you laugh. John, your laugh is more beautiful than a symphony.”

John swallows. “Yeah?”

Sherlock smiles, and John smiles back.

“Would you like to come over, John?” Sherlock asks. “We could have tea, and then I could play it for you.”

John takes Sherlock’s hand into his, squeezing it affectionately. “Absolutely,” he says, and they walk offstage, hand-in-hand, with new melodies in their hearts.


	9. Day Nine—Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are things that mean more to me than gifts, John.”
> 
> “Such as?”
> 
> Sherlock’s gaze is meaningful, unmoving. “Sharing non-material things, like experiences I enjoy. Laughing together, sharing ideas, or simply sitting in comfortable silence.” He clears his throat. “Like the things I do with you. Only you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is a jealous trash can fa la la la laaaaaa la la la la—

Sherlock argues when John forces him to participate in the Yard’s annual “Secret Snowflake” gift exchange—but actually seems pleased when he draws Molly Hooper’s name.

When John finds out the name Sherlock’s drawn, he’s not quite as pleased.

He can’t put his finger on why. It’s no secret Molly fancies Sherlock, though, so Sherlock’s going to have to navigate carefully.

Sherlock does nothing carefully, of course. John is nevertheless surprised when Sherlock informs him of his choice of gift.

“You got Molly—what, now?”

“Earrings.” Sherlock is quite proud. “They’re rather beautiful, actually.”

John tries to suppress the unidentifiable feeling that’s bubbling up within him. Concern? Yes, that’s probably it. He’s simply concerned that Sherlock will give Molly the wrong impression.

“You got—jewellery for her?” John asks weakly _. “Why?”_

He hadn’t meant to ask that.

“Because I’ve seen Molly wearing earrings before, so I know they’re something she’s fond of.”

“Oh.” It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, but the feeling in John’s chest doesn’t disappear.

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“My gift for Molly is making you uncomfortable.”

“Sherlock—“ John shifts nervously. “What if Molly misunderstands your gift?”

Sherlock looks entirely confused. “What do you mean?”

“Jewellery is a bit…romantic in nature, yeah?” John asks.

“Oh.” Sherlock stares away thoughtfully for a moment. “Alright.”

“Are you…” The tightness in John’s chest spreads to his throat. “Do you have romantic...intentions...with Molly?”

He hadn’t meant to ask _that,_ either.

“God, no.” Sherlock sputters a breath of laughter. “What’s gotten into you, John?”

Relief washes over John, but he struggles to speak. “I just… worry that people will get the wrong idea.”

“What people?”

“Molly, for one—“

“Molly is aware that I’ve got no romantic interest in her.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Sherlock pauses and considers. “Fairly sure.”

“And as for the others—“

“Who cares what they think?” Sherlock moves forward, looking John in the eye. “It’s a gift, John. Gifts are pointless. They do nothing to actually convey the true level of fondness I may have for a person. If they did, I’d have already—“ he stops abruptly, shifting his eyes.

John frowns. “Already what, Sherlock?”

“There are things that mean more to me than gifts, John.”

“Such as?”

Sherlock’s gaze is meaningful, unmoving. “Sharing non-material things, like experiences I enjoy. Laughing together, sharing ideas, or simply sitting in comfortable silence.” He clears his throat. “Like the things I do with you. _Only_ you.”

John nearly goes speechless. “Thank you,” he finally says softly. “For giving me that gift. It means a lot to me, too.”

Sherlock’s expression is unreadable. “If you’d like jewellery—“

“No,” John laughs. “I’d much rather have your time.”

A smile finally dawns on Sherlock’s lips. “I’ll happily give it to you.”

John doesn’t think about it—he moves a step forward, taking Sherlock’s hand. “And I’ll give you mine, Sherlock. For as long as you’ll allow it.”

Sherlock curls his fingers around John’s. “You’re allowed to give me all the time in the world.”


	10. Day Ten—Do You See What I See?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With that, Sherlock stirs, taking a deep breath as his eyes flutter open. 
> 
> “John,” he says, his voice rough. He looks up from beneath his eyelashes and beams at John, radiant and unreserved. And as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he folds his body upwards, wraps his arms around John’s neck, and kisses him.

Few people know what Sherlock Holmes looks like when he’s sleeping.

The tranquil rising of his chest with deep, steady inhalations. The peaceful way his mouth hangs open, eyelashes casting shadows over his pale cheeks, hair clinging lightly to his forehead. The bizarre way his body curls into a tiny ball as if he’s some sort of contortionist.

It’s a sight that takes John’s breath away no matter how many times he’s seen it.

***

The Holidays are lonely for singles in their thirties, which is the sole reason John’s on his third date with Jennifer, the accountant.

Jennifer is pretty, but she talks just a little too much about her baking hobby.

She and John sit at the bar sipping overpriced Merlot, and Jennifer is on about a jam tart.

John’s mind wanders to earlier that evening at the flat.

“Potential suspect near Regents Park,” Sherlock had informed John, halfway out the door. “Coming?”

“Can’t,” John had answered. “Date.”

News of John’s dates never fails to stop Sherlock in his tracks. “The boring secretary?”

“Accountant,” John had corrected him, unable to argue about the _boring_ part.

Because here John is, listening to a tirade about mince pies, wishing he were with Sherlock.

“You’re not paying attention, John.” Jennifer’s words pull John into the present.

John blinks forcefully. “Uh, yeah. Mince...tart?”

Jennifer sighs with exasperation. “You were thinking about Sherlock Holmes, weren’t you?”

John sees no use in lying. “There was a case—“

“I don’t understand,” Jennifer cuts him off. “He’s a bit odd, isn’t he? Not to mention arrogant, immature and rude.”

That’s how John’s final date with Jennifer ends.

He stands, reaching into his wallet and placing money onto the bar.

“John, where are you—?”

“Jennifer,” John interrupts. “If you could see what I see in Sherlock, you’d understand why I’ve got to cut this short. He’s my best friend. I can’t spend time with someone who doesn’t accept him.” He turns, nodding stiffly. “Good evening.”

***

When John enters the flat, Sherlock is asleep on the sofa. John can’t stop himself from staring; from smiling; from kneeling to get a closer look.

Like this, Sherlock’s hardly the cold, abrupt brainiac he pretends to be. No; he’s much closer to being the man John always sees.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John whispers, trying not to wake him.

Sherlock’s lower lip quivers, the air from his exhalations rustling his curls.

“People don’t get it, do they?” John smooths a curl. “They don’t see the wise, caring man I see.”

With that, Sherlock stirs, taking a deep breath as his eyes flutter open. 

“John,” he says, his voice rough. He looks up beneath his eyelashes and beams at John, radiant and unreserved. And as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he folds his body upwards, wraps his arms around John’s neck and kisses him.

“You’re finally home,” Sherlock says sleepily.

“Yeah.” John smiles as Sherlock makes a contented noise in his throat. “Yeah, Sherlock. I am. And I’m gonna stay.”  
  
  
  
  



	11. Day Eleven—Comfort And Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Truly,” Sherlock says, his voice genuine. “Thank you. For always comforting me, even when I’m being a bit troublesome.”
> 
> “You’re always troublesome,” John says. “But you bring me joy.”
> 
> “I love you,” Sherlock replies.

_“John._ Feet. Hurt.”

John smiles from his side of the bed, leaning his head to Sherlock’s and nuzzling their noses together. “I’m no detective, but I suppose it’s from walking for nearly four hours during holiday shopping.”

“You forced me to go,” Sherlock groans, kissing John softly between words.

John moves his body toward Sherlock’s, aligning their hips and laying a hand on Sherlock’s waist.

“There was no forcing. You insisted on going _just in case,_ because more murders happen on the holidays.”

“After today, I completely understand why.”

“You enjoyed yourself. Admit it. I heard you humming Christmas carols near the outerwear.”

“I was simply trying to figure out the chord progression of Carol of the Bells.”

“Of course.” John trails kisses across Sherlock’s forehead, down the bridge of his nose, to the tip of his nose, and to his lips. He plants a long, slow kiss, his hand coming to rest at Sherlock’s zip.

Sherlock emits a tiny growl, leaning up to whisper in John’s ear. “John?” He kisses John’s earlobe softly.

John shivers blissfully at the sensation. “Yeah, Sherlock?”

“Massage my feet. Please.”

John bursts into laughter as Sherlock spins into a sitting position, his socked feet landing clumsily on John’s abdomen. 

“Fine.” John takes Sherlock’s foot into his hands. “But only because you were such a good sport today.”

“And because you love me and you want to provide me comfort,” Sherlock adds.

“That, too.”

Sherlock sighs contentedly, tilting his head against the wall and letting his eyes fall closed. “Thank you, John.”

“Of course,” John says softly, rubbing the soles of Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock releases an embarrassingly loud moan. “Christ, that feels amazing.”

“Former army surgeon,” John reminds Sherlock. “I’m very good with my hands.”

“You are very good.” Sherlock is nearly trembling. “And you’re good with your mouth, too.”

“Sherlock!” John giggles.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “Remove your mind from the gutter. I just meant that you always know exactly what to say.”

“Right.” John rolls his eyes.

“Truly,” Sherlock says, his voice genuine. “Thank you. For always comforting me, even when I’m being a bit troublesome.”

“You’re always troublesome,” John says. “But you bring me joy.”

“I love you,” Sherlock replies. “...so much that I’d _consider_ shopping with you again.”

“You had fun.”

“Did not.”

“That’s a lie, but alright.”

Sherlock kicks John in the stomach playfully. John lets out a whiff of air, throwing Sherlock’s legs off of his lap and grabbing him by the shoulders in protest.

Sherlock simply stares at him provocatively, and John turns Sherlock over, pressing his upper body onto the bed. He drapes his own body over Sherlock’s, looking him in the eye before collapsing onto him and kissing him fiercely.

“God,” John says in between lingering kisses. “I love you so much.”

“I know.” Sherlock pokes his head outward, capturing another kiss from John. “Now don’t you dare stop kissing me.”

“Bossy today, hmm?” John teases, but he dips his head down and kisses him anyway.


	12. Day Twelve—Gingerbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hums against Sherlock’s clavicle and calls him a genius, and Sherlock decides that this is definitely his favourite Holiday tradition.

Sherlock has learned over time that Holiday traditions often entail spending time with loved ones.

He hasn’t partaken in many, because he hasn’t had many loved ones. But he has John now.

He loves John.

So when John buys a Christmas tree, Sherlock decorates it with him. He goes Holiday shopping, and listens to carols and watches ridiculous television programmes, because he’d do anything to spend more time with his John.

On a Friday before Christmas, John brings home a gingerbread house kit. “It’s something we can build together for fun,” John says as he sets it onto the table, “and we can eat it whenever we feel like it.”

“Sounds boring,” Sherlock deadpans.

John gives him a smile and a quick kiss on the mouth. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

Sherlock groans, but doesn’t mean it.

John takes pieces from the box—various candies and oddly-shaped pieces of gingerbread. Sherlock doesn’t know where to begin, but John is ever-helpful.

“There’s a picture of how it should look, but we don’t have to follow it exactly,” John explains. “We can be creative.”

Sherlock presses his lips together, eyeing the picture as ideas dance into his head like sugarplum fairies.

“John?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“Suppose we take these gingerbread...people.” Sherlock picks up a tiny gingerbread man and sets it face-down onto the table. “And suppose we lay one over here, and we decorate the floors and walls with red icing, and take a particularly sharp piece of candy cane—“

John bursts into laughter when he catches on. “You want to turn our gingerbread house into a murder scene?”

Sherlock’s face lights up like a child in a room full of gifts. “Can we, John?”

John tilts his head, eyeing Sherlock fondly. “We may be able to craft some liquorice into the shape of a revolver.”

Sherlock beams, taking John by the shoulders and planting an enthusiastic kiss on his lips.

John inhales sharply, wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, and kisses him back. The kiss lingers as Sherlock melts into John’s touch, allowing John to nibble at his bottom lip. Sherlock drapes his arms around John’s compact body, joining his arms around John’s waist and pulling into him as they both deepen the kiss.

“I love you, you madman,” John whispers, leaning his torso against Sherlock’s and pressing him up against the kitchen table.

“John,” Sherlock sighs as he clings to John’s shirt. John dips him backwards onto the surface of the table, climbing on top of him, kissing him and kissing him, their lips and breaths hot against one another, and then—

They hear something being crushed beneath them.

“Oh, shit,” John mumbles, dipping his head to pepper Sherlock’s throat with kisses. “The gingerbread house. I think we’ve destroyed it.“

“Nonsense.” Sherlock tilts his head to expose his neck. “The murderer destroyed the house, too. Bomb, perhaps?”

John hums against Sherlock’s clavicle and calls him a genius, and Sherlock decides that this is definitely his favourite Holiday tradition.


	13. Day Thirteen—Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees bus 129 three days later.
> 
> The boy is there, in the same seat, staring into his lap. John freezes where he stands, nearly gasping at his own good fortune.
> 
> “Look up,” John mutters, a prayer to nobody in particular.
> 
> As fate would have it, the boy raises his head, glancing outwards, and his crystalline eyes catch John’s. The boy’s brow furrows as he focuses intently on John, his expression changing to one of curious fascination. 
> 
> John feels as though he may be on fire from the heat of his gaze, but he can’t bring himself to move. He wants to hold onto that gaze for as long as he possibly can. 
> 
> The bus drives away once more, carrying away the beautiful boy, and John curses underneath his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular ficlet is actually a two-parter. I figured I couldn’t leave you on a cliffhanger. Look for the continuation on Day 14’s story, “A Beautiful Sight”! Betcha can’t guess what the beautiful sight is gonna be. Yeah, it’s gonna be Sherlock. Duh.

The first time John sees the mysterious boy on bus 129, it’s a chilly December morning; frost paints every surface and the air from everyone’s exhalations.

John is walking to his medical internship at a nearby clinic as the bus pulls to the kerb.

John notices the mussed, dark curls. He can’t help but do a double take. The boy is in his early twenties, John reckons—and with that pale, smooth skin accentuated by high cheekbones, he’s the most gorgeous human John’s ever seen.

The boy’s head is lowered, however—and as the bus drives away, John feels a loss he can’t describe.

***

John sees bus 129 three days later.

The boy is there, in the same seat, staring into his lap. John freezes where he stands, nearly gasping at his own good fortune.

“Look up,” John mutters, a prayer to nobody in particular.

As fate would have it, the boy raises his head, glancing outwards, and his crystalline eyes catch John’s. The boy’s brow furrows as he focuses intently on John, his expression changing to one of curious fascination. 

John feels as though he may be on fire from the heat of his gaze, but he can’t bring himself to move. He wants to hold onto that gaze for as long as he possibly can.

The bus drives away once more, carrying away the beautiful boy, and John curses underneath his breath.

***

It’s nearly a week before John sees the boy again.

His heart skips when he notices the boy looking up expectantly as the bus pulls to the kerb.

John stops in his tracks and flashes the boy a smile. The boy absentmindedly runs a hand through his curls, smiling timidly at John.

It takes all of John’s self-control not to run to the bus and board it himself. Instead, he raises his fingers into the air and gives the boy a wave. The boy’s pale, full lips part as his smile grows and he waves back.

When the bus drives off this time, John swears that he will do whatever it takes to see that smile again.

***

The next day is the coldest day of December. John considers taking a cab to the clinic, but knows that every time he walks is an opportunity to spot the boy on bus 129.

As the bus pulls to the kerb that morning, John’s stomach drops with disappointment. Every passenger window is entirely covered in frost, shielding John from his view of the boy.

But miraculously, as John looks over to the boy’s usual seat, he notices something. The frost is being cleared off of the window. John can see the outline of the boy’s face, and then—

John squints. The boy seems to have written a message into the frost:

_221B Baker Street_

An address.

As the bus departs, John stands there, letting it sink in. He continues on his path to the clinic, the address echoing in his head.

John knows where he’ll be visiting this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued...


	14. Day Fourteen—A Beautiful Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re here.”
> 
> John spins on the doorstep, and there he is: the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. It’s the boy from the bus, close enough to touch.
> 
> “Hi,” John says breathlessly. “You’re here, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a continuation of Chapter 13—“Frost” :)

_221B Baker Street_

John doesn’t stop thinking about the address for his entire clinic shift. And he doesn’t stop thinking about the mysterious boy from Bus 129—his piercing eyes, his heart-shaped lips, the tousled curls on his head.

John knows nothing about this boy. Doesn’t know his name or the sound of his voice. Doesn’t know what he does, or where he’s headed on that bus.

But he knows the address the boy had written onto the frosty bus window; and he’s got nothing else to go on. So after his shift ends, John hails a taxicab, climbs into the backseat, and instructs the driver to take him to Baker Street.

***

As the cab pulls up, John knows he may be somewhat mad—how’s he to be sure the boy is even home? Better yet—that he isn’t some kind of murderer?

John’s excitement overrides caution, and he decides to take his chances. He walks to the door and raises a hand to knock, but before his knuckles hit the wood, a voice stops him. It’s dark and mellow, the accent somewhat posh, the tone amazed.

“You’re here.”

John spins on the doorstep, and there he is: the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. It’s the boy from the bus, close enough to touch.

”Hi,” John says breathlessly. “You’re here, too.”

He’s tall—but not as tall as John had expected. He’s wrapped in a black wool coat; a blue scarf tied around his neck. Though the light is dim, his eyes and smile are bright as he gazes at John with pure wonderment.

“I live here,” the boy responds plainly.

John swallows, his arms draped at his sides, and he runs his fingertips nervously over his thumbs. “Yeah. Of course.”

The boy steps up to join John on the doorstep, his curls bobbing over his brow, and John nearly forgets how to breathe. He smells like honey, and John wants to be even closer.

“Name’s Sherlock,” he finally says, extending a hand.

“John Watson.” John takes the hand, and the feeling is electrifying. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Yes.” Sherlock nods. “I don’t normally do things like this, but I felt you and I had this—“

“Fateful connection?” John interrupts.

Sherlock smiles and gestures towards the door. “Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, God, yes,” John says, perhaps more enthusiastically than he’d intended.

Sherlock stares blankly. “I’ll need this back, then,” he says, looking down at their still-joined hands.

John’s ears turn red as he instantly drops Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock grins. “Don’t worry. You can have it back once I’ve opened the door.”

“Oh. Good,” John laughs.

Sherlock opens the door quickly, and as promised, he slips his hand back into John’s. And before either of them realise what’s happening, Sherlock is pulling John’s body into his.

Their lips meet gently, and it’s pure magic.

Because John’s kissing the mysterious boy from bus 129, and he doesn’t want to kiss anyone else for a long, long time.


	15. Day Fifteen—Toy Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I picked this up on the way home,” Sherlock says to John cautiously, because giving gifts isn’t something they do. He holds his hand out, revealing a small ornament of a toy soldier. “I saw it in the market, and it reminded me of you.”
> 
> John lifts an eyebrow. “How did this remind you of me?” 
> 
> “A soldier,” Sherlock explains, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “A small one, with a horrible fashion sense.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s angsty I’M SORRY
> 
> I struggled with this prompt and this is all I could come up with. Hope you still enjoy ❤️

Last year, John had decorated the Christmas tree with Sherlock at Baker Street. Back then, things were carefree and joyous (even if they were solving a new murder every week).

But there’s none of that, this year.

This year, there’s no more Sherlock. No more decorating trees at Baker Street. No more solving murders and no more joy.

John pulls ornaments from a box and places them one by one onto the tree in the dark corner of his new flat. His heart skips a beat when he comes across an ornament of a small toy soldier. “Oh,” he breathes, running his thumb over the bright red wood of the soldier’s coat. “Hello, you.”

John closes his eyes as the memory returns.

***

“I picked this up on the way home,” Sherlock says to John cautiously, because giving gifts isn’t something they do. He holds his hand out, revealing a small ornament of a toy soldier. “I saw it in the market, and it reminded me of you.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “How did this remind you of me?”

“A soldier,” Sherlock explains, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “A small one, with a horrible fashion sense.”

John glares, trying to decide whether he’s offended, but the grand gesture evens it out.

“Thank you, he says. He takes the ornament from Sherlock, and their fingers brush together, sending tiny sparkles of electricity straight to John’s chest.

***

“Wish you were here, Sherlock,” John says from the sofa of his barren flat. “Teasing me and giving me ridiculous gifts.”

This year, John hangs the toy soldier higher on the tree than any other ornament.

***

Sherlock’s been away for over a month, now—forty-four days, to be exact. And of those forty-four days, he has spent forty-four days missing John.

Eastern Europe is cold in December—colder than London, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. He folds himself into his sheepskin coat and walks the street markets in the evenings, inhaling the thick chilly air. Marvelling over the Christmas lights and trying to feel something—anything—other than alone among thousands of strangers.

The marketplace smells of chestnuts from the food vendors, toys and jewellery and gifts dotting every corner.

As Sherlock passes one particular vendor, he sees a familiar flash of red, and he pauses briefly to get a closer look.

He smiles to himself.

It’s a toy soldier. Just like the one he’d given John last year.

When Sherlock had explained the reasoning behind it, John had pretended to be offended, but had laughed one of those boisterous, bright John laughs.

God, Sherlock misses John’s laugh.

He pushes the thought back and walks to the vendor, giving him cash and taking the toy soldier.

For a moment, he simply stares at it, running his thumb over the bright red wood of its coat.

“I wish I were still with you, John,” he says softly as he slides the toy soldier into his coat pocket, vowing to be home with John before next Christmas.


	16. Day Sixteen—Season's Greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Christmas carols, then?” John sets his beer onto the bar.
> 
> “Nooooo.”
> 
> “Fa la la la…”
> 
> Sherlock quickly smothers a laugh. “Shut up.” 
> 
> John’s on top of the world. “Dashing through the snow—”
> 
> “Stop, or I’ll—”
> 
> “In a one horse open sleigh!”
> 
> “John,” Sherlock murmurs, turning on his stool and leaning closer to John, eyes dark.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes has very soft lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a treat. It was co-written by the lovely [unicornpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe) <3 THANK YOU, DARLING <3

John wouldn’t have attended Stamford’s holiday party if he’d known Sherlock Holmes would be here. Sherlock Holmes, with the pretty face and the annoying habit of stealing body parts from the hospital where John works.

But Sherlock’s _very_ much here; draped against the bar, glaring daggers at John.

John finds himself relaxing a few pints in, however. And when he meets Sherlock’s eyes across the room, he is sitting, chin propped in one hand, staring at John in a way that isn’t _pleasant_ but certainly isn’t _angry._

John stares back. And then, somehow, John accidentally ends up standing very close to Sherlock at the bar.

Why not? Sherlock’s pretty. And John’s drunk. Drunk John smiles and says something silly to Sherlock: “Merry Christmas, Gorgeous.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

John wants to melt into the floor. “Just offering the season’s greetings. Seemed like you could use it.”

Sherlock grunts in an approximation of the words: “Not really.”

“Right.” John leans his hip against the bar. “You’re the brooding character. Molly told me about _that_ whole act.”

Sherlock’s mouth does something complicated. “It’s not an act,” he snaps. “I hate people. And I hate the holidays.”

John moves a couple inches closer. “Then why are you here?”

“I lost a bet against Stamford,” Sherlock sighs. “I have to stay for the entire party, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

John laughs. “You have to be _here_ the entire time?”

“...Yes.”

“And you… hate the holidays?”

Sherlock groans. It’s kind of hot. “So much.”

Sherlock’s annoyance is amusing, and definitely something John knows how to inspire.

“In that case.” John takes another swig, moving close enough to smell the spicy shampoo wafting from Sherlock’s curls. “I’m going to continue wishing you a Merry Christmas, just to annoy you.”

“John, no—”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Noooo.”

“Joyeux Noel!”

Sherlock covers his ears with both palms, squeezing his eyes and shaking his head hard enough to bounce his curls.

“Christmas carols, then?” John sets his beer onto the bar.

“Nooooo.”

“Fa la la la…”

Sherlock quickly smothers a laugh. “Shut up.”

John’s on top of the world. “Dashing through the snow—”

“Stop, or I’ll—”

“In a one horse open sleigh!”

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, turning on his stool and leaning closer to John, eyes dark.

Sherlock Holmes has very soft lips.

All rational thought flees John’s mind; he hears only the pounding of blood in his veins. He grabs Sherlock around the waist, pulls him close, kisses him back; runs his hands up the line of his spine, smiles, kisses him back; tugs him off the stool, presses their chests together, _kisses Sherlock back._

“Christ,” John says when he can breathe. “Why did you—”

Sherlock is breathless; John is _pleased._ “Kiss you?”

“Not complaining,” John grins, “but—I wasn’t exactly expecting it.”

Sherlock’s smile is sly. “It shut you up.”

John laughs. “Well, if I’ve got to sing more carols for you to kiss me again, then I’ll—”

The kiss is just as good the second time around.


	17. Day Seventeen—Warm And Cosy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first winter they’ve fallen asleep wrapped around one another; Sherlock’s entire soul in John’s hands, John’s fragile heart at his lips. 
> 
> This is the first winter Sherlock lies in bed with his arms folded around John’s ribcage; fingers settling beneath John’s shirt, right in the dimples at the small of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s warmer and cosier than snogging and heavy petting? 👀

Sherlock knows every centimetre of John Watson’s magnificent body, but the sacred stretch of skin where neck meets shoulder is the part he adores the most.

Sherlock often sinks his face into the pulse point there—cosy, warm, and safe—feeling John’s heart beating steadily as they fall asleep.

This is the first winter they’ve fallen asleep wrapped around one another; Sherlock’s entire soul in John’s hands, John’s fragile heart at his lips.

This is the first winter Sherlock lies in bed with his arms folded around John’s ribcage; fingers settling beneath John’s shirt, right in the dimples at the small of his back.

John will sometimes inform Sherlock affectionately that his fingers are colder than a corpse—but doesn’t seem to mind as he places his chin into the nest of curls atop Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock usually hears John inhaling as though he’s breathing the scent of the first flowers of Spring. John’s satisfied hum conveys the enjoyment of Sherlock’s overpriced shampoo, just before he presses his lips delicately to Sherlock’s head and blissfully exhales.

Often, John’s hands—warm and callused and strong—trickle smoothly down Sherlock’s arms, gooseflesh chasing quickly behind his touch; those fingers settling into the bare dip of Sherlock’s waist and tracing circles right there, just above the waistband of Sherlock’s silk pyjamas.

Other times, those fingers skate up Sherlock’s spine, beneath his dressing gown; skimming slowly around his rib cage, and down. And there they stop—tickling the place where Sherlock’s trousers meet his sharp hip bones.

Sherlock will make happy little noises, pulling his face away from the safe space of John’s shoulder; grazing his lips just over John’s collarbone and whispering over one clavicle until those lips reach the hollow in between. Sherlock simply breathes there, the warm exhalations pooling until John—unabashedly aroused—tilts his head backwards to expose his neck.

Sometimes, Sherlock kisses John exactly there, or presses his nose against John’s Adam’s apple—but always, John moans, squeezing Sherlock’s waist over and over, hard enough to leave a bruise.

Sherlock sometimes walks his thin, icy fingers over John’s spine, slipping the cotton tee-shirt over John’s head; digging his fingernails into John’s shoulder blades and moaning as John slides Sherlock’s gown over his pale shoulders.

And Sherlock almost always pulls John closer into him, until the sweaty skin of their stomachs slides together, locking their bodies into place like a pair of magnets.

And almost always, John begs for Sherlock to kiss him; tells Sherlock that his lips are the only thing he’s ever wanted more than the air he breathes. That he can’t believe kissing Sherlock’s something he’s allowed to do—and that he loves Sherlock, God, how he loves him.

And always, Sherlock glides his hands roughly into John’s tousled hair, tilting their heads and slotting their mouths perfectly together.

Always, Sherlock kisses John with every ounce of love he can possibly pour out. And always, he knows that here—with John—is where he wants to be.


	18. Day Eighteen—Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John smiles brightly, pulling Sherlock back into his body and kissing him. “I need to ask you,” he murmurs in between soft kisses.
> 
> Sherlock smiles against John’s mouth. “Alright.”
> 
> “Be my husband?” 
> 
> “Obviously.”

When John thinks about why he wants to marry Sherlock, he enters a blissful little state—the reasons are endless, like his love for the man he didn’t realise he’d been waiting for until they’d met.

John’s going to ask tonight. A surprise proposal during an apparent planned “holiday celebration” at their flat that isn’t actually happening.

“I didn’t agree to a party, John,” Sherlock says that morning.

“You did. _Oh yes, John.”_ John tries impersonating Sherlock’s dramatic baritone; Sherlock’s face shows he isn’t amused. _“...Be sure to invite the entire Yard.”_

Sherlock stomps his foot in a childlike fashion. “I was being ironic!”

“Already sent out the invites.”

“Please uninvite me.”

“Nope.”

Sherlock pouts rather gorgeously. John cannot hold back, so he kisses Sherlock on the forehead, right where it crinkles whenever he frowns.

“I love you,” John says.

That never fails to make Sherlock smile, and this time’s no different: “I love you, too.”

***

Sherlock later returns home from an appointment with Lestrade. His jaw drops. The flat’s covered in photographs of crime scenes. Not just any crime scenes—

“Crime scenes we’ve visited together,” Sherlock observes.

“Figured you’d enjoy them more than tinsel.” John gazes at him with his heart in his eyes. “Would you mind getting my phone charger from the bedroom?”

As Sherlock wanders into the bedroom, he hears a tiny whimper and freezes. “John? Is there... a dog in our bedroom?”

“Might wanna check,” John teases.

Sherlock approaches the door and opens it, knees wobbling when he sees what’s before him: an Irish setter puppy, tail thumping madly, bow wrapped around its neck.

“John,” Sherlock breathes. “It looks like my childhood dog—“

“I know.” John approaches Sherlock, kissing him on the cheek. “Why don’t you check the ribbon?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s still unmoving.

John waits. “Are you going to—“

“I don’t need to.” Sherlock’s voice is shaky; he’s holding back tears. “My answer is yes.”

John blinks. “What do you think I’m asking?”

Sherlock spins around, his eyes wet; sweeps John into his arms, hugging him fiercely. “The question doesn’t matter; my answer will always be yes.”

The dog walks over, and Sherlock sets a hand on her head. “I’d say it’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received...but actually, John, _that_ would be you.”

John smiles brightly, pulling Sherlock back into his body, kissing him. “I need to ask you,” he murmurs in between soft kisses.

Sherlock smiles against John’s mouth. “Alright.”

“Be my husband?”

“Obviously.”

John kisses Sherlock, long and warm and loving, only breaking it when the dog jumps onto his knees.

Sherlock kneels down, scratching her behind both ears. He unties the ribbon around her neck, pulling a black box out and opening it. Inside is a silver ring; Sherlock slips it on.

“Looks amazing,” John says.

“You’ve got great taste.”

“Obviously,” John chuckles, and Sherlock preens.

Sherlock stares at the ring, at the dog, back at John. John’s never seen anything more beautiful than this: His family. His reason. His everything.


	19. Day Nineteen—Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s not completely unfamiliar with the feeling of Sherlock’s body honed in on his; the faint scent of his aftershave and the warm puffs of his breath. But those moments are usually fleeting—the result of an enclosed space during an investigation or the byproduct of Sherlock forgetting the boundaries of personal space during a passionate outburst.
> 
> This is none of those things. 
> 
> This is them, in bed together, John facing Sherlock’s long, outstretched back as he tries to turn off his overactive imagination. 
> 
> It’s innocent, for all intents and purposes. But as they lie there, Sherlock’s pale, exposed neck blossoms from the collar of his pyjamas, and John’s lips hover there quietly. And John tries not to think about pressing his lips against the cool skin, but he doesn’t succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silent niiiiight 
> 
> Holy bedshariiiiing
> 
> John’s not calm 
> 
> Not at all 
> 
> ReAD what HaPPENs
> 
> ***
> 
> Merry Christmas! Hopefully, I get caught up with these very soon. I’ve been travelling the past few days and unable to update. Thanks for your patience ❤️

The aroma wafting from Sherlock’s curls is even more heavenly than John had imagined, but as John lies on one side—back against the cold, unfamiliar wall—he desperately tries not to think about it.

He also tries not to think about how _close_ Sherlock is.

Of course they’d been called to a case up North on Christmas Eve; and of course the inn rooms are scarce. They’re forced to settle for a dust-covered room with only a single bed, and of course, Sherlock doesn’t seem bothered.

John, however, is stuck inside his own head, wondering how he and Sherlock had been so close for so long without actually being this CLOSE.

Not horizontally, anyway.

John’s not completely unfamiliar with the feeling of Sherlock’s body honed in on his; the faint scent of his aftershave and the warm puffs of his breath. But those moments are usually fleeting—the result of an enclosed space during an investigation or the byproduct of Sherlock forgetting the boundaries of personal space during a passionate outburst.

This is none of those things.

This is them, in bed together, John facing Sherlock’s long, outstretched back as he tries to turn off his overactive imagination.

It’s innocent, for all intents and purposes. But as they lie there, Sherlock’s pale, exposed neck blossoms from the collar of his pyjamas, and John’s lips hover there quietly. And John tries not to think about pressing his lips against the cool skin, but he doesn’t succeed.

They lie there, silent. There’s no way John can sleep. And if the shallow patterns of Sherlock’s breathing are any indication, sleep eludes them both.

John starts to wonder if he should break the silence somehow, just as Sherlock begins to slowly roll his own shoulders backwards into circular patterns—perhaps relieving tension built up during the case.

John doesn’t say a word. He can’t. If he moves his mouth at all, he’ll be dusting his lips against the thin, silky material of Sherlock’s pyjamas.

Sherlock relaxes his shoulders and leans his upper body backwards. It’s a minuscule movement, but just enough that John shamefully loses control, leaning forward to fit his entire face snugly into the dip between Sherlock’s shoulders.

Against his own judgment, John nuzzles the area, his treacherous arm lifting to wrap itself around Sherlock’s waist—a move that feels as instinctual as the satisfied sigh that escapes Sherlock’s lips.

John doesn’t know what he’d expected from Sherlock—this hadn’t exactly been premeditated. But he certainly never expected to feel the utter relinquishment of tension from the detective’s entire body at the palm of his hand. He never expected Sherlock to slide backwards, pressing their torsos into alignment, or for Sherlock to lift his own hand, entwining their fingers and resting his palm atop John’s.

And John never expected to get any sleep tonight, but with Sherlock now breathing steadily in his arms, the events of the day melt away, and they both silently—so silently—perhaps even blissfully, fall asleep.


	20. Day Twenty—Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John relishes Sherlock’s heartbeat, the one thing proving that he’s there, alive. “Sherlock, tell me you’ll stay.”
> 
> “There’s no other option, John. If—as they say—home is where the heart is, you are forever my home. And I will never leave again for as long as my heart beats.”
> 
> John wipes tears from his face, tilting his head to meet Sherlock’s impassioned gaze. Within the span of a heartbeat, he claims Sherlock’s lips, kissing him like he’ll never let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a sequel to Day Fifteen—Toy Soldier. I felt that I couldn’t leave the story open like that without reuniting them :) 
> 
> But it’s basically just a super emotional Reichenbach reunion and can be read as a stand-alone too. Either way SPOILER ALERT THEY KISS AND LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER ❤️

Seven hundred forty-three days. That’s how long John’s been without Sherlock.

At Christmastime, John always removes the toy soldier ornament from its box—the only Christmas gift Sherlock had ever given him.

Each year, John holds the ornament to his heart, revisiting the memories before hanging it upon the tree.

This year, as John closes his eyes, Sherlock’s voice drifts from the memories, loud and present and real. John’s missed that voice, how it coloured words with golden hues, the excitement it had stirred in his chest.

This time is no different, and John wonders how the memory can be so vivid. With a light brush of fingertips against John’s elbow, his question is answered.

The ornament slips from John’s grasp, shattering into pieces on the wooden floor. John has no time to think—his first instinct is to turn and swing.

The visitor predicts John’s instincts, spinning backwards, avoiding the strike altogether.

“What the fuck?!” The words fly from John’s mouth without hesitancy.

“Don’t worry,” the visitor says, eyeing the ornament. “I’ve brought you another.”

John feels his body drop as his vision clouds into a swirling mix of grey. The next thing he knows, he’s conscious, leaning unsteadily into Sherlock’s embrace, dizzily raising his head toward grey-blue eyes.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, his hands settling protectively on the small of John’s back. “I should explain—“

“You were _dead,”_ John chokes. “I saw you die, I _mourned—_ “ John’s body wavers again, this time, not from shock, but grief.

Sherlock peers down, tightening his grip around John’s waist. “I had to fake my death to throw off Moriarty’s network so they wouldn’t hunt you. Three days ago, I finished the job, and—“ His pause conveys an emotion John can’t name. “I came home as soon as I could. To you.”

John can’t fathom anything; he doesn’t try. He relinquishes his body, collapsing into the safe haven of Sherlock’s embrace. Covering his own face with his palms, an effort to shield the emotion pouring from his eyes, he huddles against Sherlock’s chest.

“I missed you,” John says. Three simple words, and yet, the truest words he’s ever spoken. Inhaling wetly, he allows his next words to tumble out into a sob. “The only thing I wanted was for you to come home.”

John relishes Sherlock’s heartbeat, the one thing proving that he’s there, alive. “Sherlock, tell me you’ll stay.”

“There’s no other option, John. If—as they say—home is where the heart is, you are forever my home. And I will never leave again for as long as my heart beats.”

John wipes tears from his face, tilting his head to meet Sherlock’s impassioned gaze. Within the span of a heartbeat, he claims Sherlock’s lips, kissing him like he’ll never let him go.

And there they stand: finding a home in each other’s arms, in desperate but genuine utterances of devotion. Finding a home that can never be abandoned; built upon a foundation of love and the beating of their hearts.


	21. Day Twenty-One—Hopes And Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> —In which Sherlock Holmes creates a Christmas List.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some crackiness 👀

_The_ _Official_ _Christmas_ _Wish_ _List_ _of_ _Sherlock_ _Holmes_

 _221B_ _Baker_ _Street_

 _London_ , _England_

To Whomever Reads This List (John),

The purpose of writing this is to relay my Christmas wishes, as seems to be a habit of many. I do not understand most regular human habits—however, John has requested that I compose a list to make his life more convenient.

If you are a person with the means to grant these particular wishes, please note the London address above.

And now for the list. This Christmas, I would like:

  * A murder

  * Another murder

  * A pair of hemostatic forceps. For dissection of tissue, obviously—premium grade stainless steel, precisely 139.7mm, cheap replicas will not be accepted.

  * Honeybee Neurobiology and Behaviour [book], hardcover, 3rd edition (the first two editions do not include diagrams of the honeybee cerebellum. THIS IS A REQUIREMENT.)

  * Another murder, a very good one

  * A renewal of my subscription to UGH JOHN IS CALLING ME INTO THE OTHER ROOM




  * Irritating. Why does he insist on my eating although I’m not hungry? And why will he not stop asking me to remove the body parts from the refrigerator?

  * I’d like to add “John not forcing me to eat” to my list

  * I’d like to add “John no longer yelling at me for dismembered body parts” to my list

  * Also, I’d like more dismembered body parts

  * Unlimited access to Bart’s morgue

  * New serial killer???????

  * For John to discontinue his mating rituals with various women, as they severely impede on The Work

  * Burn his jumpers

  * (I dislike the women John chooses to date; they are tortuously dull)

  * (I’d prefer John be home with me. I’m positive I need him more than any of those women do.)

  * A pony (living)

  * A human (dead) (cadaver) (no need to actually kill a human)

  * (I’m not entirely sure of what John is thinking when he leaves me behind on a case and goes out with those women. What have they got that I don’t? Besides large breasts.)

  * (It’s large breasts)

  * (Should I ask for large breasts?)

  * Mycroft forever banished to Antarctica!!!!

  * A membership to Amazon Prime JOHN IS CALLING ME AGAIN




  * (Just as I suspected, he’s got a date tonight)

  * (John’s unceremoniously informed me that my having large breasts will not assuage the situation) 

  * Ugh

  * (Forget everything I’ve written. I want John here. With me. Tonight.)

  * (And perhaps the forceps, because those are very useful)

  * (If not for large breasts, what reason does John have for dating? Is it for small talk, or cheap champagne, or flirting and arm touching and)

  * (Ooooohhhhh)

  * (Kissing. There’s also kissing.)

  * (I’ll be right back)




  * Update: kissing is, in fact, a foolproof method for keeping John home

  * As well as a few other skilful acts, none of which required my having large breasts

  * I always suspected John of looking very, very good with clothing off—and I was not incorrect

  * John knows quite a few skilful acts as well, so Merry Christmas to me

  * Please don’t forget the forceps





	22. Day Twenty-two—Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John faintly notices the bartender leaning inwards; his own pulse quickening. 
> 
> “...You’ve checked your pocket an average of 3.2 times per hour,” the bartender adds. “A ring.”
> 
> John tries not to think about how the man wraps the words around his beautiful mouth as he speaks. “And I don’t want it?”
> 
> The bartender’s gaze doesn’t falter; nor do his words. “Ex-military—your sense of adventure feeds your adrenaline addiction. These events bore you to tears. You crave the streets, not marriage. And—“ the man’s so close now, his lips brush John’s cheek—“you’ve been watching me all evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another multi-chapter story. Enjoy :)

He’s bought her a ring; a modest cut. Mary’s not picky. She’s more concerned about the _whens_ than the _whats_ :

“It’s been a year now, John—I’m not getting any younger.”

She’s nice. Pretty, funny, smart. John’s not getting any younger either, so why not?

Tonight’s the holiday dinner with Mary’s family, catered by her rich uncle at some overpriced restaurant. The perfect night to propose.

Except John can’t stop watching the bartender.

The tall, handsome man in the perfectly-tailored white linen shirt and tight black trousers, who’s been looking up from the bar with a gleam in his eye, a hint of a smirk that John knows he’s not imagining.

John makes small talk with Mary’s family. With cousins about investments, uncles about who’s going to which uni. Attends to Mary when she doesn’t like the steak; reassures her when her aunt makes some comment about her dress.

Still, he cannot pull his eyes from the bartender. He’s positively magnetic.

John lets himself look. What’s the harm? He’s practically betrothed; admiring the beauty of another man, the way his trousers hug the beautiful curves...

When John excuses himself to the loo, he peeks towards the bar. The man isn’t there.

John suppresses disappointment and walks steadily towards his destination; upon opening the door, he finds what he’d been longing to see.

The man stands before the mirror, nonplussed, adjusting one of his curls. John passes him wordlessly; does his business. After he’s finished, the man still waits.

“Evening,” John mumbles, the heat of the man’s presence burning into him.

“Proposing tonight,” the bartender responds, not batting an eye. “I’d say congratulations are in order.”

John tries to conceal his shock. “Thanks? How—“

“I’d _say_ that,” the man continues promptly, backing away to face John. “...except you don’t want to marry her, and who can blame you? She’s one of unsavoury morals, and you aren’t the type to marry—“

“Oi!” John cuts him off with a slam of his palm onto the sink. “What are you on about?! How did you know I was proposing?”

The man steps closer, locking eyes with John’s. “I didn’t know—I saw.”

John swallows. “Saw what, exactly?”

“Your interactions with her made it clear you’re a couple; with the others, that they’re family.”

John faintly notices the bartender leaning inwards; his own pulse quickening.

“...You’ve checked your pocket an average of 3.2 times per hour,” the bartender adds. “A ring.”

John tries not to think about how the man wraps the words around his beautiful mouth as he speaks. “And I don’t want it?”

The bartender’s gaze doesn’t falter; nor do his words. “Ex-military—your sense of adventure feeds your adrenaline addiction. These events bore you to tears. You crave the streets, not marriage. And—“ the man’s so close now, his lips brush John’s cheek—“you’ve been watching me all evening.”

John flushes. “Who are you?” He utters through clenched teeth.

“Sherlock Holmes,” The man breathes just above John’s ear. “Two-two-one Baker Street.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	23. Day 23—Nightmare Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feels Sherlock’s mouth trailing a hair’s breadth along John’s jaw. “You’re a doctor. In fact—“ Sherlock wraps his long fingers around John’s wrist. “You’re an army doctor. Any good?”
> 
> John’s breath hitches. “Very good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay well it’s gonna be a three-parter ansnsdndbfbf HOW WILL I END THIS IN 500 WORDS? We shall see. 
> 
> Also this isn’t really a nightmare lol I mean THE NIGHTMARE IS THE PROPOSAL GONE AWRY but John’s getting the attention of a hot guy so ... idk what I’m doing anymore
> 
> Enjoy ❤️❤️❤️❤️

John tries to steady his breathing, but the name rolling off the bartender’s tongue gives him a thrill he can’t name.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John echoes, unsure whether he’s turning his head towards the cool, pale skin of Sherlock’s neck because it’s close enough to feel his pulse—another strange thrill—or if it’s a vain attempt to meet his eyes. “Why should I know your address?”

Sherlock’s voice is a deep, warm burst onto John’s ear: “So that if your proposal goes awry, you can come over.”

John’s throat tightens. He knows he should be angry at the insinuation, but he can’t resist. “Why?”

John feels Sherlock’s mouth trailing a hair’s breadth along John’s jaw. “You’re a doctor. In fact—“ Sherlock wraps his long fingers around John’s wrist. “You’re an army doctor. Any good?”

John’s breath hitches. _“Very_ good.”

“Mm,” Sherlock’s voice caresses John’s cheek. “Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”

“Mm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” His grip around John’s wrist tightens.

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” John’s got no idea where Sherlock’s going with this, but he’s basking in every word.

Sherlock dips his head, aligning his mouth with John’s, not quite bringing them together. “Wanna see some more?” he breathes against John’s mouth.

“Oh, God—“ John’s eyes fall closed. “Yes.”

He feels the smirk on Sherlock’s face, but seconds later, he no longer feels the other man’s warmth.

Sherlock releases his grip, and John releases an embarrassing whine. “You know my address,” Sherlock says. “Once you’ve decided what you want, come find me.”

He walks away.

“Wait,” John calls out, turning to face Sherlock. “You said something about Mary having—unsavoury morals?”

Sherlock pauses in the doorway, wrapped in shadows, and John stares in awe.

“If I tell you, Doctor, life as you know it will change. Are you sure you want such a thing?” he asks over his shoulder.

“I need to know,” John replies without hesitation.

“Your apparent bride-to-be is a highly-skilled assassin,” Sherlock replies so neutrally that John needs him to repeat.

“Pardon?”

“You heard correctly. I’m a detective moonlighting as a bartender to observe her family. She’s among several, in fact.” He spins slowly, and John notes the sympathetic expression on his face. “I’m sorry, John.”

He walks out the door.

John stands there, allowing it to sink in. Two hours ago, he’d planned to propose to his girlfriend, and now some madman is telling him that she’s an assassin. A madman who happens to be the most beautiful creature John’s ever laid eyes on, who’s inviting John over to—Solve crimes?

Sherlock had been spot-on with his assessment of John. John doesn’t want marriage. He wants adventure, and it sounds as though that’s what Sherlock’s offering.

John wants everything he has to offer.

If his reading of John had been so astute, could he be telling the truth about Mary?

John doesn’t know, but this is definitely not the evening he’d planned for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	24. Day Twenty-Four—Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn’t speak. 
> 
> “I saw the way you were looking at him,” she continues. “You’ve never looked at me that way, John. Not even when we first met.”
> 
> Fuck, John thinks. Apparently, tonight, everyone knows his own story but him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! Thanks so much for all the support during this work! It was so much fun, though a bit challenging to fit every chapter into 500 words. I do, however, love a challenge.
> 
> And I love YOU GUYS! Each and every one of your kudos and comments made my day better and inspired me to no end. So thanks again. Hope to see you next year ;)

John passes the bar on his way back to his seat, but Sherlock’s not there.

“Went home,” the woman behind the bar explains, towelling off a glass.

John drifts to the table where Mary sits beside her cousin. She looks as though she’s—well, about to kill him.

“Where have you _been?”_ she mouths.

John tries to summon a sympathetic smile. “Can I pull you outside?”

Mary furrows her brow, but given her current company, she’s grateful for an opportunity to leave.

John takes her out front. The night is chilly, and they are the only two there.

“What is it, John?” Mary asks. John sees the concern in her eyes.

“Mary—“ He doesn’t ask the burning question. _Are you an assassin?_ It doesn’t matter. Mary could be an assassin, or a saint, and it wouldn’t change what _does_ matter: John doesn’t want to marry her.

“Mary, I apologise for doing this now, but...you and I want different things.”

Mary releases an exasperated sigh. “Christ, John. Really? Now? Just a few days before Christmas?”

“I know how much of a cliche it is, but…” John continues weakly.

Mary crosses her arms. “What brought this on so suddenly?”

“I…” John stutters. “Suppose I just...had a revelation.”

“Bullshit.” Mary lifts a finger, poking him in the centre of the chest. “I know when you’re lying.”

John looks at her, mouth agape.

“I know you, you bloody moron,” she says. “And I know you’re not the type to settle down. I suppose I thought I could be the one to change you. Pretty presumptuous on my part.”

John doesn’t speak.

“I saw the way you were looking at him,” she continues. “You’ve never looked at me that way, John. Not even when we first met.”

 _Fuck,_ John thinks. Apparently, tonight, everyone knows his own story but him.

“He told you about me?” Mary chuckles humorlessly. “Sorry I wasn’t able to do it first.”

John can’t believe what she’s saying. “So it’s true? You’re a—“

“Killer for hire?” Mary shrugs. “Yeah. What can I say? It pays well. But believe me, I only take down the people who deserve it.”

John doesn’t want to question that statement.

“Go after him,” she says. “It’s alright.”

John can’t believe how supportive Mary’s being, but again, he doesn’t question it. He darts forward, hugs her, and thanks her profusely.

“Get on with it,” she mumbles.

And he does.

It’s a twenty minute cab ride to Baker Street. When John exits the cab, Sherlock’s waiting for him on his doorstep.

“You were right,” John says to Sherlock as his eyes lift to meet his. “About all of it.”

“Of course I was.” Sherlock extends his arms towards John. “Come here.”

John meets Sherlock in an embrace before tilting his head and capturing his mouth with his.

As the snow falls, John knows he’s found peace in such a strange, unexpected set of occurrences. Because he’s going into a new life—and kissing the bloody gorgeous bartender.


End file.
